


Beeswax, Salt, Rain

by celestialskiff



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Daenerys is the Queen of Westeros long may she reign, Dom/sub, Dragons, F/F, Fix-It, Impact Play, Intimacy, King's Landing, Kissing, Post-Finale, Rimming, Sailing, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 13:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20243671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: “I did not know I was being offered a Queen’s bed.”Daenerys tilted her head. “Didn’t you?”“I never presume.” Yara smiled into her goblet.“You presume much, and often, Yara Greyjoy.”Daenerys grows lonely while Yara sails.





	Beeswax, Salt, Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [truebluemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/truebluemoon/gifts).

> Thank you to capeofstorm for the swift and insightful beta.

Above the Red Keep, her two dragons circled. Inside, the tables were set with gold, flagons heavy with wine. Drizzle licked at the windows; embers moved in the hearth. The castle was rich with good food, with plenty. Daenerys’s stomach turned over within her: a queasy headache had settled above her eye early that morning, and now worked its way into her jaw. 

She nodded to Maester Tarly, to Lord Gendry, glad to dismiss them. When she was alone with Missandei, she sat by the fire, rubbing her cheek. 

“Let me.” Missandei massaged Daenerys’s jaw muscles with her cool fingertips. Daenerys leant into the touch, pleased she did not have to speak. Her mind was running, running. How much grain could the Reach send to King’s Landing? Could she convince the Starks to send livestock to White Harbour? And what of the rebellion in Dorne? Was it really as unimportant as the Martells claimed? 

Perhaps she should fly there with Drogon, and see for herself. At least it would be warmer. 

Missandei left her, returned with a cup of hot spiced wine, and cloth soaked in clove oil. “Are you tired, my dear?” Daenerys asked her. “You needn’t wait.” 

“Not as tired as you, I think,” Missandei said. But when Daenerys gestured for her to sit, she sat. Daenerys snatched at these moments of convivial silence, when she didn’t have to guard her every gesture, lest she betray her thoughts. Oh, she was tired... Her dreams full of dead men, burnt tents, babies without faces. She needed... 

She breathed in: the smell of rain, the smell of beeswax candles...

Yara’s leather smelt of beeswax; she brought gifts of semi-sweet honey from the salt-laced nectar of the islands... Her hair wind-scarred, tangled; the bitter salt of her thighs... 

Daenerys felt very alone. 

A knock. Missandei answered it, and dismissed the messenger. 

“What was it?” Daenerys asked. 

“Markus of House Blackwood requests once more that you meet his son,” Missandei said. Her tone was even, but Daenerys knew her well enough to hear the derision. 

“How often do I say that the Queen does not wish to discuss marriage? Perhaps I should send the next person who asks me about it to the Wall.” 

* 

When the wind rose from the south the pain in her head died, though it came back when she met the Dornish advisor. Drogon flew south into the wind, and didn’t return – weeks passed, and Daenerys did not let herself worry. _It is my third year in King’s Landing,_ Daenerys thought. _My third year of winter._

Yara came when the wind swung to the east. Danerys’s spies spotted her long before she landed; Missandei informed Daenerys. Daenerys pretended the matter was of no moment to her – “Make her room ready,” she said, as she would have spoken had the visitor been a lord from the Riverlands. 

But she instructed her handmaid to help her bathe in water scented by dried thyme from Dorne, and to rub perfume into her neck and under her arms. She asked Missandei to braid her hair, though this was no longer one of her duties. These days Missandei had handmaids of her own – but no one’s fingers were as supple and clever as Missandei’s at arranging her silver curls into neat coils. 

Missandei smiled at her – kind, but inscrutable. She never made unnecessary comments. 

Impulsively, Daenerys took her hand, and kissed it. “You must take some days off, spend them with your husband,” she said. “You work too hard.” 

Missandei nodded, though Daenerys knew that neither she nor Grey Worm really understood rest. 

Then Daenerys waited in the firelit hall, hearing the city sounds, and beyond them, the sea. 

As the afternoon progressed, Daenerys heard reports of lost cargo in Blackwater Bay, of a capsized vessel. They were not problems large enough for her to worry about: she heard of them after they have been resolved by someone else. She smiled thinly at her advisor, told him she was relieved to hear his decisions had been so astute. She tried not to think of Yara. 

And the evening had darkened to night when Yara arrived, and knelt to her, as she knelt always. “My Queen.” 

Her voice was husky and familiar. Daenerys felt a catch in her throat – joy, surprise – and swallowed it down. Yara looked up at her with trust and pleasure, and Daenerys felt an answering warmth bloom in her bones. She thought of – later. Later when perhaps she would be the one to kneel. 

Daenerys gestured for Yara to rise. They would speak as equals – Queen to Queen. 

As always, Yara was dashing: she swung herself up onto the dais, boots thumping against the marble, and took Danerys’s hand in hers, and kissed it. Danerys wondered how many hands Yara kissed like this – in Dorne, in Pentos, at home on the Iron Islands. How many girls did she court? Did Danerys wish to know? 

It was only when she looked into Yara’s face that she saw the purple-green bruise on one cheek. A healing bruise, but a bad one. A blow like that could kill you if it fell the wrong way. 

“You’re hurt,” Daenerys said, before she could stop herself. “What happened?” 

Yara turned her head away, loose strand of hair falling over her cheek. She shrugged. “Nothing – just a harbour brawl.” 

Daenerys didn’t believe her, but didn’t pry. “Well. What news of the sea?” 

Yara sat beside her, at the opposite chair, and began to speak practically. They were no longer at war, but the talk remained intense. They spoke of the North, the Starks in their huge cold halls, the pirates Yara had captured, the rebels she had rousted. And they spoke of the Iron Islands, the uneasy tension between loyalty to Yara and desire to plunder and pillage the mainland. It was a conversation between them that would not end until one of them died – it was merely paused when Yara set sail, to be picked up when she returned. 

Daenerys only realised her throat was dry when one of her courtiers interrupted – she repeated the requests of various ambassadors and visitors, which Daenerys ignored for the night. Instead, Daenerys instructed her to lay the table with wine and savoury pastries. 

Yara began to eat the savouries as though they were haunches of meat, and Daenerys reminded herself to serve heartier food tomorrow. She wet her tongue with sun-kissed wine, delicately nibbled pastry from the tip of her fingers. 

She was not prepared for Yara to say, “And have they found you a husband yet, my Queen?” 

Daenerys drew in her breath. “Who are ‘they’?” When she spoke, her tone was scathing: the voice of a Queen in the heart of her kingdom, with two full-sized dragons. 

Yara effected to be causal, hooked her feet on the chair opposite. “Indeed, who would dare? And why would you want one? But your bed must be cold...” 

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. “Gossip, Yara? Are you one of the girls who sit and sew and mourn their lack of silks? Or do you have someone in mind?”

Truthfully, Daenerys enjoyed that Yara teased her: that she had taken that privilege, that freedom. It was lonely, never to be teased. “Only myself,” Yara said. “As I have offered before.” 

The smile Daenerys gave her was slight, but not cold. “Why would I marry you, when you already give me everything I want?” 

Yara sipped her wine. “It would feed the gossips for months. Perhaps years.” 

“You already keep them entertained.” Daenerys gestured to her servants to take away the plates. “I had several ravens from Lady Mallister in the Riverlands.” 

“I don’t know her.” 

Daenerys leant her chin on her hand, thinking of those angrily scrawled missives. “I believe you met her daughter.” 

“Ah.” Yara bit her lower lip: a more coquettish gesture than Daenerys would expect. “Jealous, my Queen?” 

“Describe her to me.” Daenerys wanted to hear of the beauty that tempted Yara; she wanted to imagine Yara climbing a honeysuckle-heavy terrace; and what a gift, she thought, for the girl, to be pursued by a dashing Queen. The girl would always remember those lips on her thighs, those hands gripping her ass; would know what it was to be worshipped. It was not a gift given to all women. 

It made her think of the first time she had made love to Yara, how she had guided Yara’s lips to her throat, Yara’s hands to her hips, and how Yara had known to bite, to scratch, how she held Daenerys to the bed, and caressed her back and behind until Daenerys was internally begging to be hit, and how finally, finally Yara had given her what she wanted and Daenerys had been – briefly, painfully – free. 

Later, she had lain in the bed they shared, watching Yara doze, and said, “Not everyone is brave enough to hit a Queen, you know.” 

Yara had looked at her, pleasure-drunk, and said, “Perhaps only another Queen.” 

Now Daenerys was – tired, impatient. She wanted Yara to know what she needed. She wanted Yara to drag her to bed. Her headache threatened at the edge of her jaw.

“You must be tired after your journey. I can have a bath drawn.” 

“I’m not tired.” Yara stretched her long legs, stretching her ankles. “And I like to work up a sweat before I bathe.” 

“Some would scent their limbs with perfumes before they bedded a Queen.” Daenerys leant her chin on the tips of her fingers. 

“I did not know I was being offered a Queen’s bed.” 

Daenerys tilted her head. “Didn’t you?” 

“I never presume.” Yara smiled into her goblet. 

“You presume much, and often, Yara Greyjoy.”

Yara caught Daenery’s wrist then, and held it. Not as though she were striking a deal: she held it gently. Daenerys could wriggle free if she wished. “Will a Queen kiss me, before I bathe?” 

“Perhaps.” Daenrys inclined her head towards Yara. 

“Oh no, my Queen. Not here.” Yara tugged her wrist. “For my kind of kiss, you must join me in private.” 

* 

No chamber in the Red Keep was ever entirely private. Spies were everywhere. The important thing was for the spies to be your own, to pay better than anyone else, to ensure loyalty with kindness. Daenerys elevated her spies from lowly stations, spoke to them with respect, and allowed them to make small demands of her. They loved her – some thought they got the better of her, receiving lofty favours for small repayment. And her spies spied on one another, her web so complex only Missandei fully understood it. 

So Daenerys knew she was being watched everywhere. She knew there were those who would pay high prices to know their Queen knelt for Yara Greyjoy – but she knew she would pay more, and give more, and the spy who saw her kneel would look on her with love. And think perhaps – _Let the Queen have her fun. She gave my old mother a soft bed, and my daughter a place in the guild of goldsmiths, and my shift is of silk now._

Daenerys’s room looked out over the dragon pits of old. Rhaegal had left the carcasses of two cows there and a comforting smell of smoke and charred meat suffused the room. Wash water steamed in a porcelain ewer decorated with dragons. Yara’s leathers appeared more salt-stained, more crudely made, among the embroidered silk hangings and crocheted cushion-covers. 

“How shall I kiss you?” Daenerys asked. 

Yara placed her hand on Daenerys’s cheek, thumb caressing jaw bone. 

“On your knees, my dear.” Her voice was low. Did she pitch it so in order to be enticing? It certainly worked: Daenerys was not surprised that the daughters of nobles could not resist her. Daenerys was sure she _could_ resist her, but she did not wish to.

She knelt. She knelt easily, and with grace, her blue-silk skirt spreading around her. The marble floor cold on her knees. She raised her chin, looking up at Yara. At the muscles of Yara’s thighs, the shape of her hips. The fondness in Yara’s eyes. 

Yara took a step forward. “Remove my breeches, and kiss my thighs.” 

The leather was stiff, but yielded to Daenerys’s fingers. She tugged the breeches down, trying to keep her movements graceful. She brushed her lips against the pale skin she had revealed: surprisingly soft, covered in dark, downy hair. And kissed again, touching lips to skin, tongue tasting the heat of Yara’s body. She pressed her bottom teeth against the inner thigh. 

Yara caressed the back of her head, undoing the intricate coils of her hair. A strand of silver brushed her neck. Daenerys reached for Yara’s smallclothes, pulled them down. Then: the clean-salty scent of Yara’s vulva. Daenerys’s own groin pulsed arousal through her. 

“Very eager, my Queen. I didn’t tell you to do that.” 

“I anticipated your desires. You’re predictable.” Daenerys smiled up at her. 

Yara answered by tugging the hair coiled closest to Daenerys’s scalp. “Am I?” 

“Yes.” 

Yara pulled enough to hurt, forcing Daenerys upwards. “Am I?” 

“Yes.” 

She let her go, fingers rubbing a soothing circle into Daenerys’s skin. “Clothes off. If you remember how to undress yourself.” 

“I can’t undo the fastenings at the back of this dress by myself.” Daenerys stood up. 

“Fuck, how do you put up nonsense like that?” Yara turned Daenerys roughly, and undid the fastenings so rapidly that Daenerys knew she tore the silk. She pushed Daenerys away from her, and pulled off her own breeches, her movements brisk and precise. She seemed utterly at ease, as she did always, even when naked. 

Air cool against Daenerys’s skin. She stretched to undo the lacings of her chemise. Then she too was naked, and she, like Yara, was at ease with her own skin. She had been unclothed, undone, too often in her life, and had learnt her power remained within. 

“What really happened to your face?” In the flickering light, the bruise on Yara’s cheek appeared darker than ever. 

Yara’s mouth twisted. “A mutiny. A minor one.” 

_There is no such thing_, Daenerys thought, _as a minor mutiny_. “You could have died.” 

“That’s always true,” Yara said dismissively. She pulled Daenerys to her. Her body deliciously cool: she smelt of salt: Daenerys thought of the sound of rain in the rigging. As Yara kissed her mouth, teeth nipping her lips, Daenerys forgot about anything her fears. It was a deep kiss, a consuming kiss. Daenerys arched up into it. Closed her eyes. Felt something inside herself ease – 

“What do you need, my Queen? What can I give you tonight?” 

Daenerys didn’t know; couldn’t answer. She pressed her body into Yara’s, staring into her glossy eyes. 

“If you don’t say anything, I’ll decide.” Yara spoke it like a threat, but Daenerys knew it was a promise. 

*

The cool silk tight against her eyes. The sounds, then: of fire in the hearth. Of wind outside. Of Yara’s breath. Her own breath and heart loud in her ears. Each breath distinct and harsh. Often, she was unaware of her body, unless it demanded her attention by giving her a pounding headache. Even on dragon-back she did not entirely inhabit her skin: she was then remade as a creature of wind and fire. 

Now she was entirely human, and aware of each muscle, down to the tips of her fingers. 

She waited for Yara’s touch – a tickle of fingers over her ribs, a slap to her thigh, a palm against her vulva. But when Yara touched her, her hands were steady and firm, as though she were handling an unruly horse. Rough palm against Daenerys’s neck, travelling across her shoulder. Tug at her breast. Wind-rough hands on her hips, her buttocks. Daenerys’s skin tingled. 

With the same firm ease, she rolled Daenerys over onto her stomach, then guided Daenerys’s legs up underneath her, so her ass rose, exposed. It was a familiar position: Daenerys leant her forehead against her folded forearms, spread her thighs. Rush of anticipation. 

Yara squeezed her thigh, her ass, hard but not painful. “Don’t you look beautiful like this.” The low, husky voice. “You need me, don’t you, Daenerys. All women come to me, you’re just like the rest. Looking for affection... tenderness...” Yara’s mouth against the cleft of her ass. “Someone to fuck you properly.” 

Daenerys moaned through her nose. She was waiting – waiting for a slap to land on her ass, on her thigh, for Yara’s calloused palms to send waves of heat through her body. 

Instead she felt Yara’s tongue against the crack of her ass, Yara’s fingers grasping her asscheeks, holding her in place. Coldwet tongue; her hot shivery cleft. One lick, and then another, tip of tongue flicking over her asshole. 

“Yara? W-what’s that?” Daenerys hissed. This was – more intimate than a finger, and infinitely more tender. 

“What does it feel like I’m doing?” Yara applied her tongue once again. 

Daenerys’s breath – caught – in her throat, and came out in a gasp. It was – new, a rush of sweetness, cold and strange. She didn’t know if she liked it. She wanted to – rock her hips, thrust her body, push against Yara’s mouth. And it was almost too much: she wanted to wriggle away like a minnow. 

“Did you learn it from some harbour wench?” She was proud of herself for her even tone. 

“Has no one ever rimmed you before?” Laughter in Yara’s throat. “Not even your pretty handmaiden?” 

Her tongue dipped before Daenerys could retort that she did not use her handmaidens in such ways. Shivers running through her. Skin twitching. Her muscles were taut and yet – something inside her was uncoiling. A tension reduced to the point of that tongue against her ass. 

Wet. The relentless cold dip, dip of Yara’s tongue. Her clit burned, her breath came fast, tense. Her hips surged upwards, shuddering. And Yara’s nails dug into the muscles of her ass, ten points of red heat. 

Lick. Lick. Her skin felt – hot. Burning. Burning deliciously. Her vulva clenched, ached. Her mouth formed ragged sounds – oh, how quickly Yara brought her to this place – 

“What do you want, Daenerys?”

What did she – What did – Did she _want...? _

“Hit me,” she said. Voice unsteady. Needy. “Yara. Slap me.” 

Yara’s voice dropping to a whisper. “As you command, my dear.” 

Then the – the bright throb of Yara’s hand against her ass. And again. And again. She was shivering with it, twitching, her mouth dry, her mind red and empty. Yara’s arm, so strong from sailing, from fighting. The rough, familiar palm. Pitting the whole of her strength against Daenerys’s slender body, and Daenerys yielding – and yielding – and yielding – 

Her knees gave out. She lay on her stomach, her breath wet. Yara coiled Daenerys’s hair around her hand, tugged her head up. Daenerys was aware her face felt damp. “Did it hurt? Have you had enough?” Her words taunting. Teasing. 

“No.” Daenerys swallowed. “More.” 

Yara let Daenerys’s head fall back into the pillow of her arms. A burn at the base of her skull. Yara’s voice – “How eager you are. What if the world could see you now, hm?” 

Daenerys squirmed against the sheets. 

“Fuck the world.” She was tender, now. “Fuck them all – only I get to see you like this. Your beautiful body turning red with my marks. I get to know how you kneel for me – only me. You treasure. You are my _treasure.” _

Daenerys barely heard her. She was waiting for – for Yara to hurt her again. She was taking so long. Daenerys shivered. Then she heard the creak of leather. And felt the end of Yara’s belt swirling down her spine. “What do you think?” Yara asked. 

Daenerys couldn’t form words. She nodded; she waited. 

Then – bright-hot, fierce, delicious as a lick of fire. Daenerys felt herself stripped – stripped – a white fire against the bedsheets. 

* 

Later she lay with her head on Yara’s thigh, cool against her cheek. She had licked two orgasms from Yara’s vulva. Yara’s finger traced her lips. “How is your back?” 

Daenerys thought. Her mind sluggish. “Radiant,” she said, at last. 

Yara laughed. “Sounds painful. You’ll have welts.” 

Daenerys, at that moment, did not mind. She nestled closer, smelling Yara’s vulva, tasting her in her mouth. Surrounded by her. Yara eased her up, off her thigh, into her arms. Nestled Daenerys’s head against her breast. That was another secret – how gentle Yara could be, how gentle she was with Daenerys now. It wasn’t a worshipful love, unlike so much of the love bestowed upon her. It was a love between adults, between equals. Yara brought her to the edges of herself, and then tempted her back, because she loved to do it. Because it was what they both needed. 

Daenerys couldn’t put any of that into words. She felt – grateful, but she knew Yara would not want her gratitude. Instead, she coiled her arms closer around Yara, listened to Yara’s heart under her ear. Let Yara draw the blankets up around them, as the embers fell in the hearth.


End file.
